by Colin Gee
The last of the clientele left and the teenager locked up before going about the nightly business of cleaning the floor, supported by the other girls, each with their own task.
The GRU officers had been the last to leave, keen to prolong the evening, but a firm approach from all concerned managed to persuade them to leave, but not before promises for further evenings had been asked for and made.
Renata and Karen did their normal cashing up, which required them to lock the office door for security purposes.
The cigarette packet lay to one side, as they moved into the cashing up. It was always agreed that no messages would be processed until they had done at least half the proper work.
As they counted and made notes, the tension mounted.
A major question had been asked of their network, one they had consistently failed to answer.
The Polish-Soviet forces planned to move to one of a number of hidden locations in time of war.
The upcoming exercises would, apparently, use the intended headquarters site, to ensure that it was up and ready in the event of a real situation arising.
Despite discovering the five locations that had been set aside by the Red Army, even to the extent of building huts and concrete structures in areas they had no intention of using, the spy network, and therefore their masters in Allied Europe, were none the wiser
Until now.
Greim set aside her notepad as Renata double-checked the door.
The well-thumbed copy of Alexander Wat’s ‘Bezrobotny Lucyfer’ appeared from its place in the small bookshelf.
Handing the book across to her boss, Luistikaite fitted a cigarette into her holder and drew deeply.
Using page, line, and word numbers, Greim quickly deciphered the eight letter message.
Showing the product of her efforts to Renata, the thin piece of paper was crumpled and dropped into the ashtray, where a match sent it into oblivion.
Greim finished up the cashing process as Luistikaite composed her own message, after which they said their ‘good nights’.
Luistikaite arrived home at Flat 3, 2 Franciskánska, pausing only to thank the Peruvian diplomat at Flat 1 for feeding her cat yet again. She passed him a few zlotys to pay for the food and went away to her bed, determined to enjoy two days off work, and now happy that the vital information would find its way to the Peruvian Consulate on Ulica Wschodnia, and from there onto the Allied spymasters. Soon they would know the location of the joint battle headquarters of the Soviet command and 2nd Polish Army forces.
Cierpice.
2200 hrs, Friday, 22nd March 1946, 15th Transportstaffel, Avno Airbase, Denmark.
The tired Colonel was just about ready to turn in when the knock on the door presaged a huge change in his immediate plans.
The Oberstleutnant, the Luftwaffe base commander entered, stepping to one side in deference to the man behind him.
“Herr General.”
Confused but calm, he saluted the new arrival, despite the man’s lack of uniform.
“This is most unexpected, Herr General. Please, may I offer you coffee?”
He nodded at the base commander, his eyes seeking information with which to work out the events ahead.
None was forthcoming.
Finishing his telephone call, he responded to the General’s small talk until the coffee had arrived and the orderly had departed.
Gehlen leant forward and deposited a folder in front of him.
“Cierpice, Standartenfuh... apologies, Herr Oberst.”
Skorzeny was still getting used to the idea himself.
“Cierpice.”
It was just a word… a statement.
“Could have been worse, of course, but Cierpice will do.”
Skorzeny unlocked his desk drawer and pulled out a number of folders, selected the one marked ‘Four-Cierpice’ and passed it to the head of Germany’s Intelligence service.
The folder contained the operational plan that had been developed should the headquarters be located in Cierpice.
“I need to get my second in command in here, with your permission?”
A few minutes later Oberstleutnant Otto-Harald Mors entered the room, immaculate as ever, despite having been on duty all day.
“It’s Cierpice, Harald.”
The base commander was an ex-Fallschirmjager condemned to ride a desk after suffering horrendous wounds during the battle against the Essex Regiment on Crucifix Hill, Monte Casino. He was in charge of the JU-52 transports allocated to the task of supporting Skorzeny’s Storch Battalion, so named for the aircraft that had flown him to fame after Mussolini’s rescue.
Cierpice meant an easier logistical problem for him and his men.
Gehlen asked the simple question.
“Can it be done, Oberst?”
“Well, it’s no Gran Sasso, that’s for sure. Much depends on our Polish Allies, of course.”
“The elements are all available,” he checked the list off on his fingers as he went, “We have good ground close by... friendly troops who can assist and cover... confirmation that the targets are on this location... good information available on the site... excellent aerial photographs...”
He looked at his second in command, the Fallschirmjager officer who had planned the Gran Sasso raid three years beforehand.
“Our major issue is, as always, fuel. Cierpice also has a particular issue in that the landing zone is shared with the pick-up zone... could cause problems. Anything to add, Otto?”
Mors shrugged his shoulders.
“As always, the unexpected could interfere with everything... but, now we know that four is the location, we can work on the plan even further... develop it... make sure we cover every eventuality... but, as the Oberst says, fuel... and much will depend on our Polish support.”
Gehlen nodded his head in understanding and posed a question.
“Any problems with our Polish Allies? Your liaison officer is efficient?”
The two Storch Battalion officers laughed out loud, taking Gehlen by surprise.
“Apologies, Herr General. Maior Romaniuk is, to all intents and purposes, a complete lunatic... a fanatic...,” Mors grinned from ear to ear as Skorzeny’s accurate description flowed into Gehlen’s ears, causing obvious concern, “And to be frank, he worries all of us.”
Gehlen couldn’t help himself.
“So you need a replacement immediately, I can get...”
Skorzeny held up his hands, stopping the head of German Intelligence in his tracks.
“Oh no, Herr General. Not at all. Romaniuk may be mad, but he’s the most complete and efficient officer I’ve ever met. He hates us Germans with a passion, but he hates the Russian more. Everything he does, he does totally and fully... no lack of commitment... yes, he’s a mad dog, but I can tell you now...he knows his job to the smallest detail and... as some are want to say...,” Skorzeny ceded the punchline to his second in command.
Mors laughed as he repeated the much spoken phrase.
“The men would follow him into hell, if only to see him kick the Devil’s ass!”
Before Gehlen could comment further, a knock on the door broke the moment.
“Come in!”
Skorzeny suspected he knew who would open the door before the face of his Operations Officer came into view, followed by the excited visage of the recently discussed Polish Paratroop Major.
Both men saluted their commander, and then, after Skorzeny’s introduction, saluted the civilian, who suddenly became all-important.
Skorzeny slid the folder over to Mors, who passed on the good news.
Von Berlepsch and Romaniuk immediately searched their memories, discarding all the planning for the other sites and focussing on the Cierpice assault.
It was Romaniuk that commented first.
“So, much depends on my countrymen then, Pulkownik.”
As Gehlen boarded the Bristol Buckingham transport, he felt confident that Skorzeny would pull of the operation.
Like most of the Allied officers in the know, he would have preferred to visit Cierpice with a squadron of heavy bombers, but the niceties of their new relationship with the Polish Army meant that they had to accede to their request to avoid unnecessary bloodshed.
Which provided the glory-hungry Skorzeny with the ideal opportunity to employ his highly trained Storch Battalion in an attempt to capture, without shedding blood, the entire staff of the Polish 2nd Army.
The intention for the associated Soviet command personnel was somewhat less benevolent.
2258 hrs, Saturday, 23rd March 1946, Task Force X-3, the North Sea.
The Captain examined the approaching aircraft with a professional interest, actually, more than partially to satisfy himself that they were friendly and not about to slip a torpedo into him or his charges.
His binoculars moved across the vessels that were his responsibility; eight were placed under his protection. Eight transports, loaded to the gunwales with men and materiel, assigned to him for safe delivery to a beach in the Baltic.
Commander Hamilton Ffoulkes shot a quick look back at the flight of Seafires that was presently undertaking the combat air patrol over his group and W-5, a larger convoy of mainly ammunition and supplies sailing some six miles further east.
HMS Charity had been to the Baltic once before, during the operations designed to destroy Soviet air power in the area, so Ffoulkes was free of any illusions about what might lie ahead.
‘Lots of ships, not a lot of sea room,’ was a thought shared by most of the naval personnel who headed for the passages through the Skaggerak, Kattegat, and Øresund that would take the armada to its point of delivery… on the north shore of Poland.
Somewhere ahead, on the island of Saltholm, an exhausted Soviet observation party surrendered without a fight, as British Royal Marine commandoes surrounded their hiding place.
Acting under rigid orders, the silent Brits executed their prisoners, and any trace of a Soviet existence on the island was removed.
As the Marines went about their grisly work, dark shapes moved unobserved through the silent waters between Denmark and Sweden, German and British minesweepers preparing the way for the larger vessels to come.
0009 hrs, Sunday, 24th March 1946, Red Army Senior Officers Dacha, Moscow, USSR.
Zhukov was shaken awake, itself an act that implied the utmost urgency.
“Blyad! A moment, man. For the motherland’s sake, give me a moment!”
The light was on, burning into sleep-heavy eyes, but he could still see the telephone being held out for his use.
“Apologies, Comrade Marshal, but Comrade Marshal Beria said it was an emergency.”
The name helped to bring Zhukov more into the land of the living, and he snatched the phone from the Staff Major, indicating his expectation for some tea.
“Comrade Marshal, I hope this is not an exercise.”
“Marshal Zhukov, I have just received reliable intelligence that tells me that the Allies will not be landing in the Baltic States, or Norway, but that they will invade Poland in the near future; a seaborne landing on the north shore. The General Secretary felt that you should be appraised immediately.”
Zhukov swung his feet out of bed, the cold floor now the least of his problems.
“Reliable, totally reliable, Comrade Marshal?”
“Yes. Comrade Stalin has convened a meeting of the GKO for 0200hrs.”
“I understand. Now, I have work to do. I will see you later, Comrade Marshal.”
Zhukov exchanged the handset for the hot tea that the Major returned with.
“Wake up the staff. Send alert warnings to the Front commanders in the Baltic, Norway, and Northern Germany, warning of possible enemy activity, including the definite possibility of seaborne assault.”
He had quickly decided to over-mobilise, rather than leave some areas unnotified and risk a disaster, especially if Allied maskirovka was at work.
0022 hrs, Sunday, 24th March 1946, GRU Commander’s office, Western Europe Headquarters, the Mühlberg, Germany.
Across Europe, Soviet senior officers were being rudely awoken, and Nazarbayeva was not spared, as the overnight duty officer, Major Repin, woke her.
“What is it, Comrade,” sounding more awake than she felt.
“Comrade General, warning orders have gone out to North Germany, the Baltic States, Norway, and Poland, anticipating an allied seaborne invasion. Fronts have been alerted to make their dispositions accordingly.”
Now she was awake, and leapt from the bed in just her shirt and the light trousers she had taken to wearing when sleeping in her office.
“Get the staff awake and in the headquarters immediately. I want this looked at... get them to go through everything for the Baltic and North Cape again... everything...”
Nazarbayeva turned away, expecting immediate compliance with her orders, but turned back as Repin stood his ground.
“Comrade General, before that I received another call from Moscow. The caller told me to tell you to concentrate on Poland, and that he anticipated the landing within the week.”
Repin was an NKVD agent, initially placed in the GRU to report back, which now was known to her. She had accepted Ilya Borissovich’s request to keep him in place as a means of easy communication, and it actually wasn’t that difficult to come to terms with as he was efficient in everything he did.
NKVD Major General Ilya Kuznetsov had sent her a message, giving her time to act and save her reputation, for as sure as night follows day, heads would roll if the Allies invaded without a hint of a warning from the agencies of the USSR.
“Thank you, Comrade Mayor. Now, get them out of bed.”
Already her mind was seeking information on Poland, recalling assets in place and any information collated already.
“We’ve missed something”, she announced to the grim face in the mirror.
0903 hrs, Sunday, 24rd March 1946, Headquarters of 1st Guards Mechanised Rifle Division, Jatznick, Germany.
Colonel Lisov received the message with no little excitement, tinged with real anger that the training had not been available to refine the newly renamed 1st Guards Mechanised Rifle Division into the extreme war machine that it could become.
He walked smartly through to his commander’s office and entered, the open door policy now set in stone as Deniken’s management style developed.
“Comrade Polkovnik, we have new orders.”
Lisov placed the document on the desk in front of Deniken, carefully avoiding the map he had been examining.
“Give me the rough details, Comrade.”
Having been up until the small hours working up a battle drill with Yarishlov, Deniken had not long been out of bed and was stood shaving at a stand in the corner.
“We are to entrain, commencing at 2100 hrs tomorrow night, using the loading facility at Torgelow. Command will provide us with sufficient trains and flatcars to transport the entire division to... and I quote... a location close to the enemy.”
Deniken started.
“Say what?”
“That’s what it says, Comrade.”
“They’re not telling us where we’re going? What sort of fucking piggery is that? How can I plan with that sort of decision?”
“I’m sure they have their reasons, Comrade.”
Deniken waved his razor to emphasise his point.
“Personally, I become less sure each time we get one of these orders, and sometimes I wonder who makes the bastard things up.”
At the moment, 1st Guards Mechanised Rifle Division was withdrawn from 16th Guards Rifle Corps and placed under the command of STAVKA and, apparently, also within the jurisdiction of the headquarters of Red Banner Forces of Soviet Europe.
On more than one occasion, the problems associated with that dual command had surfaced to challenge the staff officers of the division.
1230 hrs, Monday, 25th March 1946, OSS safe house, Thompson’s Farm, Doddinghurst Road, Shenfield, UK.
&nb
sp; Lunch was a simple affair, but tasty. Moreover, the prisoner appreciated that, for a change, the soup was hot and the bread was fresh.
The real prize had been a glass of milk, which was a first in his present surroundings. The new gaoler who gave it to him insisted that it was now part of his feeding routine, so perhaps his treatment would improve even further.
Not that it had been bad since he had been taken, all those weeks ago.
Stretching after his satisfying lunch, he gazed out of his window, the view still impressive despite the iron bars that made his room a cell.
He smiled as a middle-aged couple drove down the nearby track in the battered old Morris in which they did whatever they did, regular as clockwork every week. The car ground through the mud and slush, turning off into the woods for some moments of intimacy. He had seen them many times before, and often mused on their ‘romance’.
However, today he felt tired and decided that his bed would receive a visit ahead of schedule.
Leonard Brown had waited patiently until the prisoner was snoring gently.
Slipping into the room, he left everything just as it was, except the empty glass, which he removed and wrapped in a cloth.
Downstairs, he quickly washed the glass, removing all traces of the barbiturate that had been contained in the milk, and placed it back with its five companions, careful not to step on the body of the actual gaoler.
For skilled hands, it had been the work of a moment to break the young man’s neck as he turned to answer the phone.
As he had lowered the body down, he congratulated himself on the masterful piece of distraction and timing.
Now he needed to act quickly, in order to discharge his instructions.
Rearranging the corpse to give a passable imitation of someone who had fallen accidentally, he grabbed the paraffin stove and laid it down, working dead fingers around the carrying handle to complete the ‘story’ he hoped would be swallowed by those who came later.
